In Memoriam
by Merlynnod
Summary: They would not be forgotten, nor would the true nature of this beautiful place be allowed to overshadow the joy and peace it brought to her. And so she brought the flowers, and made the cemetery a brighter place for all who might come to remember.


This story is a continuation of the "Darkness Into Light" Story arc that I created several years ago out of a desire for Frodo to have his happy ending. The stories are AU, but then, what good fan fiction isn't little more than our desire to play in a world created by someone else, but filled with characters and moments and creatures we long to interact with as well.:) Enjoy, and feedback is always greatly appreciated.:) Stories follow Movie!Frodo in appearance, but work with either book or movie in events and timeline. :)

Frodo

It was somewhat odd in the conventional sense, and he would be the first to admit that fact, his coming so often to visit his parents…well…his parents' grave at least. He knew that they weren't there, that they had passed beyond the circles of the world into another place and time far removed from where their only son still dwelt. But somehow it just felt right, felt good to come and talk to them on occasions…on certain days. The cemetery really wasn't a sad place at all, not really, if only the others could just be made to understand. In fact, the graveyard was rather beautiful if one took the time to look at it carefully. The old linden tree, branches dropping down to the ground, thin, soft leaves brushing against him as he would settle himself beneath with a much loved book. Not to mention the small stream nearby, lending a bubbling, laughing quality to the area, a sort of background music for the one-sided conversations and gentle musings that so often became the focus of his visits to that place.

The grave was several years old now, the smooth marble just beginning to show signs of wear and age. A slight discoloration of mold creeping along the base of the stone, the words just beginning to be worn away by time and wind and life. Frodo would often wonder how the marker and surroundings would look in twenty, thirty, forty years time. Would the landscape have really changed? Would the old linden tree still be there? And the brook, would it still tell the stories to itself as it rambled over the stones in its path? Somehow, Frodo was certain that it would be…that no matter what else changed in his life, the brook and the tree, and the white marble stone would always be there, constant, fixed, unchanging and dependable as the stars overhead. That thought gave him comfort, a steady rock to stand on and cling to as the years slowly passed by…

Primula

It was a tradition with herself, a tradition she shared with no other members of her family, and jealously guarded from all comers. Going so far as to never mention where she might be going on these ventures, only stating that she had business in Buckland, and would be home in a day or two. Her husband had simply learned to let her be, to let her go, and welcome her home once more when she returned to the smial under the hill. She did not wish to share this time, this communion with him, with this place, did not wish to pollute her time here with anyone else. It was her sanctuary, alone, with her father and the old willow tree and the smiling brook. No, this was something that only she and her late father would share.

Every year, in the beginning of May she would come, bringing with her a small basket of primulas, daffodils, and violets, her father's favorite flowers. Such simple, pleasant little things, a smiling mixture of bright red, sunny yellow, and light purple, sprigs of green between them. His posey family he called them, his two flower-named lasses, and the favorite blossom of his cherished wife. The beloved flowers went into the ground, neatly planted in spots along the bank of the brook, around the various trees, and even near to some of the markers. Anywhere that looked a bit bare, or just provided a nice, sunny spot for a pretty little flower to grow and build a life would be accommodated by the lass and her spade. But always a special plant for her father, and for her grandparents. They would not be forgotten, nor would the true nature of this beautiful place be allowed to overshadow the joy and peace it brought to her. And so she brought the flowers, and made the cemetery a brighter place for all who might come to remember.

Daffodowndilly

Dilly had loved the little corner of Buckland where the old cemetery was located ever since she had been a tiny faunt. She had many fond memories of walking through the shaded paths with her parents and her sister, running about and playing near the stream, skipping small rocks and making rubbings of the gravestones. Some of the markers were nearly as old as the Shire itself, and the names had been worn away completely by the work of time and seasons long since past. Her grandparents were here, her Da's Mum and Dad, and her Mum's Mother, who had died a short while after Dilly was born. Prim remembered Gammer Brandybuck, but Dilly didn't. She was content to hear the stories from her Gaffer, Mum, Da, and many other various and sundry relatives with each visit to Buckland.

In the Shire, no one was ever truly gone, not while they were remembered with much fondness and love, their stories told, and retold, and passed around time and time again. Stories polished and smooth and inviting for small, eager ears and the smiling faces of those who had known the subjects first hand alike. For the sake of those memories was why Dilly would spend so many of her late summer afternoons staying with her Buckland relatives; just to be near the old graveyard and to pass around the stories over table and after dinner pipes in the firelight. But though the stories of the Great Hall were all well and good, she and her sister themselves remembered her parents the best, after all they had grown up under the gentle guidance and great love of Frodo and Melilot Baggins.

So Dilly brought her family, grown now from one lass to five sturdy hobbit children, each summer to Buckland, home to her memories of childhood summers and tales of adventures of old. She would bring the children to the cemetery as soon as they were old enough to enjoy a good tale, settling with a blanket under the old linden tree. Telling the stories and the daily household adventures of her parents to her children, stories she remembered, ones that had been told to her as a child, the informal, unwritten, but infinitely precious accounts of two hobbits, and the love and family they raised between them. Hobbits most of her children either barely remembered, or had never had the chance to know…but who would be remembered. Remembered by the stories in the graveyard, there beneath the linden tree and provided a gentle lullaby of music from the brook as it bounced its way along to the River…Unchanging, unceasing, always constant, a rock to stand on as life went by…

01/16/06

Disclaimer:  
This story is a work of fiction, no copyright infringement or monetary gain is intended, received, or sought. This is fulfillment of my desire to play in the world of LOTR for a time, a paltry offering of acclaim to a incredibly talented writer.


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